Hume on Religion

David Hume’s various writings concerning problems of religion
are among the most important and influential contributions on this
topic. In these writings Hume advances a systematic, sceptical
critique of the philosophical foundations of various theological
systems. Whatever interpretation one takes of Hume’s philosophy
as a whole, it is certainly true that one of his most basic
philosophical objectives is to discredit the doctrines and dogmas of
traditional theistic belief. There are, however, some significant
points of disagreement about the exact nature and extent of
Hume’s irreligious intentions. One of the most important of
these is whether Hume’s sceptical position leads him to a view
that can be properly characterized as “atheism”.

The primary aims of this article are: (1) to give an account of
Hume’s main arguments as they touch on various particular issues
relating to religion; and (2) to answer to the question concerning the
general character of Hume’s commitments on this subject.

Interpretations of Hume’s philosophy of religion are often made
against the background of more general interpretations of his
philosophical intentions. From this perspective, it is not unusual to
view Hume’s views on religion in terms of the
skepticism
and
naturalism
that feature prominently in his Treatise of Human Nature
(1739–40), his first and most ambitious philosophical work.
According to an earlier scholarly consensus, prevalent throughout much
of the twentieth century, Hume removed almost all the material in the
Treatise that was concerned with religion because he was
anxious to avoid offending the religious establishment. In his later
works, beginning with the Enquiry Concerning Human
Understanding (1748), Hume began to present his views on this
subject in a more substantial and direct manner. This culminates in
his Natural History of Religion (1757) and Dialogues
Concerning Natural Religion (1779; published posthumously)
– both of which are entirely on religion. The linkage between
these various works, on this earlier scholarly account, is that the
later writings on religion are simply an extension and application of
the sceptical and naturalistic principles that Hume developed in his
earlier writings.

In more recent scholarship, there has been a growing awareness that
the earlier scholarly consensus seriously underestimates the
irreligious content and aims of Hume’s earlier work -
particularly in the Treatise. Moreover, the earlier consensus
is liable to overlook the way in which 17th and
18th century theological controversies and debates
structure and shape Hume’s entire philosophy — not just
his philosophy of religion. Put another way, Hume’s philosophy
of religion is now increasingly viewed as integral to his entire
philosophical system, rather than as an extraneous outgrowth or
extension of earlier concerns and commitments that lack any specific
irreligious motivation or orientation.

In the opening paragraph of the last section of the first
Enquiry (XII) Hume observes that the central philosophical
debate of his day was waged between “speculative
atheist[s]” and “religious philosophers” over the
question of the existence of God (EU.149/12.1).

This observation highlights that the central debate that shapes
Hume’s views on the subject of religion was not the
empiricist/rationalist controversy or its
“British”/“continental” correlate (this
influential but misguided approach to early modern philosophy was
introduced by nineteenth century German scholarship in the wake of
Kant’s “Copernican Revolution” in epistemology; see
Vanzo 2016), but rather a more fundamental dispute between
philosophical defenders of Christian belief and their
“atheistic” opponents. It is this divide over issues of
religion that is especially important for understanding the positions
and arguments that Hume presents throughout his philosophical
writings.

During the 17th and early 18th centuries British
philosophy gave rise to two powerful but conflicting philosophical
outlooks. On one hand, this era has been described as “the
golden period of English theology” (Stephen 1962, 66) because of
the deepening alliance between philosophy and theology. It was, in
particular, a major concern of a number of divines at this time to
show that basic Christian theology could be provided with a rational
defence — one that would ward off all threat of scepticism and
atheism. Among the leading representatives of this tradition were
Henry More, Ralph Cudworth,
John Locke,
Samuel Clarke,
George Berkeley
and Joseph Butler. (More and
Cudworth were both
Cambridge Platonists.)
On the other hand, in opposition to this Christian tradition, there
existed a sceptical tradition of which the greatest representative was
Thomas Hobbes.
Closely aligned with Hobbes was the work of Benedict Spinoza, whose
Theological-Political Treatise (1670) and Ethics
(1677) pursued a number of perceived Hobbesean themes in a more
explicit and radical fashion, including anti-clericalism, biblical
criticism, scepticism about miracles, materialism and necessitarianism
(see Israel 2001). Almost all the defenders of basic Christian
theology during this period had their arguments targeted against the
“atheistic” doctrines of Hobbes and Spinoza.

Another important source of motivation for “atheistic” or
irreligious thought during this period was the sceptical philosophy of
Pyrrho, as presented in the writings of Sextus Empiricus.
Pierre Bayle
describes the significance of Pyrrhonianism in his influential
Historical and Critical Dictionary (1697, 2nd ed. 1702), a
work that we know was read carefully by the young Hume. In his article
on “Pyrrho” Bayle argues that whereas “natural
sciences” and “the state” have no reason to be
afraid of Pyrrhonism, things stand otherwise as regards “divine
science” (i.e. theology) and “religion,” for the
latter, he says, require “certainty,” and so
“collapse” when subjected to Pyrrhonian skepticism (Bayle,
Dictionary, Note B; p. 195).

Bayle’s own view that philosophy and theology should be sharply
separated, on the ground that the doctrines of theology could not be
defended by reason and were therefore a matter of faith alone, brought
his work under the suspicion of atheism. In general, it was common
among Hume’s immediate predecessors and contemporaries to
associate scepticism closely with atheism. (Hume’s writings
allude to this at various points. See, e.g., MEM, Sect. II, #40; and
D, Introduction.)

A significant development in the late 17th century relating
to the war against the perceived atheism of Hobbes, Spinoza, and their
followers was the establishment of the Boyle Lectures in 1691. These
lectures, founded by the distinguished scientist Robert Boyle, served
the purpose of defending basic Christian theology against
“notorious Infidels,” in particular atheists (see
MacIntosh 2006) — a project that had considerable overlap with
the project outlined half a century earlier by Descartes in the Letter
of Dedication of the Meditations on First Philosophy (1641).
By the early 18th century the Boyle lectures had become the
focus for the debate between religious philosophers (amongst which the
Newtonians emerged as particularly important and influential) and
speculative atheists. The most influential of the Boyle lecturers was
Samuel Clarke, who was a close friend of Newton’s and widely
recognized as the most able defender of Newtonian philosophy and
theology. Clarke’s Boyle lectures, published in 1704 as A
Demonstration of the Being and Attributes of God, developed an
elaborate version of the cosmological argument (or “argument
a priori” as it was then called), an argument then very
much in vogue, having been sketched in influential books like John
Locke’s Essay Concerning Human Understanding (1690).
Locke and Clarke took the cosmological argument to be capable of
demonstrating the existence of God with mathematical certainty.
Clarke’s version of this argument enjoyed considerable prestige
throughout the first half of the 18th century and found
strong support among several Scottish philosophers of considerable
reputation at this time. In addition to the cosmological argument, the
design argument was also widely endorsed by religious philosophers and
scientists at this time, including Newton himself. It is these two
alleged proofs for the existence of God that Hume’s
philosophical writings are particularly concerned with
discrediting.

Hume’s Scottish contemporaries were heavily involved in the
general British debate between “religious philosophers”
and “speculative atheists.” Prominent Scottish defenders
of Clarke-inspired cosmological arguments included Andrew Baxter, and
prominent Scottish defenders of design arguments included the
Newtonians George Cheyne and Colin Maclaurin. There is little doubt
that Hume was well aware of these figures; he was a student at
Edinburgh University in the 1720s, where Maclaurin was professor, and
as a young man he lived in the Borders area of Scotland, where Baxter
was active.

In Hume’s own lifetime his philosophy was widely viewed by
Scottish, English and Continental critics in both Scotland and England
as being “atheistic” in character and generally hostile to
religion, not only on account of late writings like the
Dialogues, but also on account of Hume’s early
writings, including the Treatise. One of the most significant
developments in recent Hume scholarship is the rehabilitation of this
earlier view.

A good starting point for understanding Hume’s views on theism
is his empiricism. The potential for empiricism to produce skeptical
conclusions concerning our knowledge of God was already apparent in
Hobbes’s work, which embraced similar empiricist principles
concerning the foundations of human knowledge. The most striking
aspect of Hobbes’s position on this subject is his claim that we
have no positive idea of a God with infinite attributes.

Whatever we imagine is finite. Therefore there is no idea or
conception of anything we call infinite. No man can have in
his mind an image of infinite magnitude, nor conceive infinite
swiftness, infinite time, or infinite force, or infinite power
… And therefore the name of God is used, not to make
us conceive him (for he is incomprehensible, and his
greatness and power are inconceivable), but that we may honour him.
Also because whatsoever … we conceive has been perceived first
by sense, either all at once or by parts, a man can have no thought
representing anything not subject to sense… (Hobbes,
Leviathan, 3.12)

Consistent with this view Hobbes provides a minimalist and negative
theology. According to Hobbes, our idea of God is like a blind
man’s idea of fire. A blind man lacks any positive idea of
“what kind of thing fire is,” knowing only that fire is
“that somewhat” that “warm[eth] him”;
analogously, we lack any positive idea of a God with infinite
attributes, and understand by “God” only the cause of the
world (Hobbes, Citizen, 15.14; Leviathan, 31.15).
Attempts to ascribe further positive attributes to God are rejected as
anthropomorphism (Hobbes, Human Nature, 11.3;
Leviathan, 31.25-28; Citizen, 15.14). Clearly, then,
Hobbes employs his empiricist principles to emphasize the
“narrow limits of our phantasy,” putting knowledge of a
God with infinite attributes beyond the scope of human
understanding.

Theists responding to Hobbes’s empiricist scepticism concerning
our idea of God had three basic options. One was to reject his
empiricist principles concerning the origin of all our ideas and argue
that our idea of God is either innate or derived from reason. Another
alternative was to accept empiricism about the origin of our ideas but
deny that this has any sceptical implications for our knowledge of
God. This is the route Locke takes in his Essay Concerning Human
Understanding, where it is argued that our idea of God is a
complex idea arrived at by augmenting simple ideas acquired through
reflection on our experience of the operations of our minds. A third
alternative, which had been favoured by Catholic and Protestant
orthodoxy, was to allow the experiential origin of ideas but then go
on to say that ideas of creaturely attributes can be applied to God
analogously, on the basis of a supposed degree of similarity or
resemblance between God and creatures. This route was taken by, among
others, the Irish theologian Peter Browne in Things Divine and
Supernatural Conceived by Analogy with Things Natural and Human
(1733). This issue concerning our idea of God was fundamental to the
whole early 18th century theological debate as it concerned
the various schools of “religious philosophers.” During
this period freethinking critics (e.g. Toland and Collins) used these
difficulties to argue, along the lines of Hobbes, that we have no
clear idea of God. Hume’s views about the origins and nature of
our ideas should be considered with reference to this controversy.

What is fundamental to Hume’s entire empiricist program in the
Treatise is his “copy-principle” or the claim
that “all our ideas, or weak perceptions, are derived from our
impressions, or strong perceptions, and that we can never think of any
thing which we have not seen without us, or felt in our minds”
(TA, 16–7/ 647). Hume goes on to observe that this
“discovery” is of considerable importance “for
deciding all controversies concerning ideas”. “Whenever
any idea is ambiguous”, he continues, we always have
“recourse to the impression, which must render it clear and
precise” (TA, 7/648). If we suspect that “any
philosophical term has no idea annexed to it”, Hume suggests, we
can always ask “from what impression that pretended idea is
derived?” (TA, 7/648–9) If no impression can be produced,
we must conclude “the term is altogether insignificant”
(TA, 7/ 648).

Given the prominence of the copy-principle in Hume’s
philosophical system, and its obvious relevance to the debate
concerning our idea of God, it is surprising to find that in the
Treatise Hume barely mentions our idea of God, much less
provides any detailed account of the nature and origin of this idea.
It would be a mistake, however, to conclude from this that theological
problems, as they concern our idea of God, are far from his mind. On
the contrary, neglecting this topic, in face of the ongoing debate and
its obvious relevance for Hume’s philosophy in the
Treatise, could be a way of suggesting a (strong) sceptical
message.

In the Enquiry, Hume offers a Lockean account of the
origination of the idea of God, saying that “[the] idea of God,
as meaning an infinitely intelligent, wise, and good Being, arises
from reflecting on the operations of our own mind, and augmenting,
without limit, those qualities of goodness and wisdom” (EU,
2.6/19; and cp. TA, 26/656; EU, 7.25/72). Here our idea of God is
treated as complex and derived from simple ideas based on reflection
on the operations of our own minds, which we “augment without
limit.” We would be misguided if we took this account at face
value, however.

For, to start with, we know from Hume’s
private correspondence that he considered the idea of God to be
problematic, writing to William Mure in 1743 (i.e., in the period
between the publication of the Treatise and Enquiry)
that inasmuch as God is not the object of “any Passion or
Affection” or of “the Senses or Imagination,” and
“very little of the Understanding” as well, it follows
that God is “unknown to us” and cannot “excite any
Affection” in us (LET, I, 51/#21). Hume goes on to recognize
that “enthusiasts” distort God “into a Resemblance
with themselves, & by that means render him more
comprehensible,” but this, he notes, is a degradation of the
idea of God. This take on the idea of God is clearly more Hobbesean
than Lockean.

Second, in Enquiry XI Hume presents a critique of our
“conjectures” about God’s nature and attributes, as
based on evidence of design in this world. In this section Hume
emphasizes the point that God’s being is “so different,
and so much superior” to human nature that we are not able to
form any clear or distinct idea of his nature and attributes, much
less one based on our own qualities and characteristics.

The Deity is known to us only by his productions, and is a single
being in the universe, not comprehended under any species or genus,
from whose experienced attributes or qualities, we can, by analogy,
infer any attribute or quality in him… (EU, 11.26 / 144)

In a later passage Hume goes on to remark that God is “a Being,
so remote and incomprehensible, who bears much less analogy
to any other being in the universe than the sun to a waxen taper, and
who discovers himself only by some faint traces or outlines, beyond
which we have no authority to ascribe to him any attribute or
perfection” (EU, 11.27 / 145–6 — my emphasis). It
is, evidently, Hume’s considered view that in respect of our
idea of God we lack the relevant impressions that can serve as the
origin of this idea.

Third, in Dialogues X Hume goes on to argue, even more
radically, that the analogy between creaturely attributes and the
supposed attributes of God is not only weak, but breaks down
altogether in view of the evil that the theist believes God allows in
the world. For since “neither man nor any animal are
happy” it follows that an omnipotent God must “not will
their happiness,” in which case God’s “benevolence
and mercy” cannot in any significant way be said to resemble or
be analogous to “the benevolence and mercy of men”
(Dialogues, X, 23).

We see then that Hume is in substantial agreement with Hobbes that in
respect of our idea of God, our predicament is much the same as that
of a blind man trying to form the idea of fire.

In Lucretius’s The Nature of the Universe – which
is the greatest classical statement of a system of atheism – it
is argued that it is impossible that matter was created and that it
must, therefore, be eternal and uncreated. The basis of this argument
is the general causal principle: “Nothing can come from
nothing” [Ex nihilo, nihil fit.] In the late
17th and early 18th centuries this principle was
turned against the Epicurean atheism of thinkers such as Lucretius and
his modern counterparts. More specifically, the principle
“Nothing can come from nothing” was taken to ground two
derived principles of causal reasoning. The first is the causal maxim:
Whatever exists must have a cause or ground for its
existence. The second principle is that of causal adequacy or the
order of causes: No cause can produce or give rise to perfections
or excellences that it does not itself possess. These two
(derived) causal principles were used by religious philosophers like
Cudworth, Locke and Clarke as the philosophical foundation for their
own versions of the cosmological argument. It fell to Hume to argue
that the causal foundations of this argument were too weak to support
the philosophical weight placed upon them.

Hume’s most explicit assault on the cosmological argument
appears in Part IX of his Dialogues. In this context, he
specifically mentions Clarke and condenses his argument into a few
sentences:

Whatever exists must have a cause or reason of its existence; it being
absolutely impossible for any thing to produce itself, or to be the
cause of its own existence. In mounting up, therefore, from effects to
causes, we must either go on in tracing an infinite succession,
without any ultimate cause at all, or must at last have recourse to
some ultimate cause, that is necessarily existent… (D,
9.3/188 — Hume’s emphasis)

There cannot be an infinite succession of causes and effects without
any ultimate cause at all, the argument runs, because this would fail
to provide any cause or reason for the whole series or causal chain.
That is to say, we need to explain “why this particular
succession of causes existed from eternity, and not any other
succession, or no succession at all.” Clearly the series cannot
be produced by nothing. We may conclude, therefore, that the universe
must have arisen from some “necessarily existent Being, who
carries the Reason of his existence in himself; and who cannot be
supposed not to exist without an express contradiction.” (D,
9.3/189). This necessarily existent being is God.

It is also essential to this argument to prove that the
necessarily-existent being cannot be (unintelligent, inactive) matter.
Clarke’s argument, as paraphrased by Hume, is based on the
contingency of matter and particular form of the world.

“Any particle of matter”, it is said, “may be
conceived to be annihilated; and any form may be conceived to be
altered.” Such an annihilation or alteration, therefore, is not
impossible. (D, 9.7/190)

Another argument that Clarke provides (not mentioned by Hume in the
Dialogues) to show that it is impossible for matter to be
“the final and original being” is that we cannot explain
the origin of motion and intelligence in the world if matter is the
first, original self-existing being. The basic principle that Clarke
relies on to establish this conclusion is, once again, that
“nothing can come from nothing”. In this case the
principle is interpreted as implying that “in order of causes
and effects, the cause must always be more excellent than the
effect.” [Clarke, Demonstration, 38] It is impossible,
on this account, “that any effect should have any perfection,
which was not in the cause”. On the basis of this principle
— the causal adequacy principle — Clarke and other
like-minded thinkers maintained that it is demonstratively certain
that matter and motion cannot produce thought and intelligence.
Therefore, the original, self-existent being must be an intelligent,
immaterial being. To suppose the contrary, they claim, would be a
plain contradiction.

It is evident that the foundations of this argument rest with the
related causal principles that everything must have a cause or ground
for its existence and that no effect can have any perfection that is
not also in its cause. To deny either of these causal principles is,
on Clarke’s account, to reject the more general principle that
“nothing can come from nothing” (a principle that the
atheists such as Lucretius have themselves acknowledged). In the
Treatise Hume develops an account of causation that directly
contradicts these causal principles. Contrary to the causal maxim,
Hume maintains, it is entirely possible for us to conceive of
something beginning to exist without any cause. To deny this implies
no contradiction and, therefore, this principle is neither intuitively
nor demonstratively certain (T, 1.3.3/78–9). Granting that
whatever is conceivable or non-contradictory is possible, it follows
that it is possible that there exists a causal series that came into
existence uncreated or has always existed without any further cause or
ground for its existence.

Just as Hume rejects the claim that it is absurd or contradictory to
deny that there must be a cause for everything that comes into
existence, he also denies that it is impossible for an effect to have
perfections that its cause lacks. Contrary to this view, Hume
maintains, “any thing may produce any thing” (T, 1.3.15.1/
173; 1.4.5.30/247–8; EU, 12.29/ 164). All that there is to
causation, as we experience and know it, is the constant conjunction
or regular succession of resembling objects. In other words, to say X
causes Y is to say that in our experience we discover that objects
resembling X’s are always prior to and contiguous with objects
resembling Y’s (T, 1.3.14.28–31/ 168–70). Our idea
of causation as it exists in the world reaches no further than this.
(See the entry on
the metaphysics of causation.)
On this basis Hume argues:

Creation, annihilation, motion, reason, volition; all these may arise
from one another, or from any other object we can imagine. (T,
1.3.15.1/173; cp. 1.4.5.30/247)

In this way, Hume stands Lucretius on his head with a view to refuting
those “religious philosophers” who aimed to refute
Lucretius’s atheism using his own causal principle:

That impious maxim of the ancient philosophy, Ex nihilo, nihil
fit, by which the creation of matter was excluded, ceases to be a
maxim, according to my philosophy. Not only the will of the supreme
Being may create matter; but, for aught we know a priori, the
will of any other being might create it, or any other cause, that the
most whimsical imagination can assign. (EU, 12.29n/164n)

Clearly, however, under cover of rejecting Lucretius’s general
causal principle, Hume has established that a priori it is not
impossible for matter and motion to produce thought and consciousness.
On the contrary, not only is it a priori possible for matter to be as
“active” as thought and consciousness, and actually
produce thought and consciousness, this is exactly what we discover
from experience (T, 1.4.5.31/248–9). The clear implication of
all this is that there is no basis for the a priori claim that the
material world is incapable of activity or producing thought and
consciousness. Indeed, experience shows that this claim is actually
false. There is, therefore, no basis for the a priori claim that there
necessarily exists an original, self-existing being that is an
immaterial, intelligent being (i.e., God).

Closely related to Hume’s critique of all efforts to demonstrate
the existence of any being by means of a priori reasoning, is his
critique of the notion of necessary-existence in general. In the
Dialogues Hume explains his position as follows:

… there is an evident absurdity in pretending to demonstrate a
matter of fact, or to prove it by arguments a priori. Nothing is
demonstrable, unless the contrary is a contradiction. Nothing, that is
directly conceivable, implies a contradiction. Whatever we conceive as
existent, we can also conceive as non-existent. There is no being,
therefore, whose non-existence implies a contradiction. Consequently
there is no Being whose contradiction is demonstrable. (D, 9.5/189;
cp, EU,12.28–34/ 164–5)

As Hume puts the point in the Treatise, when we believe that
God exists our “idea of him neither encreases nor
diminishes” — we simply conceive of “the idea of
such, as he is represented to us” in a more forceful or vivid
manner (T, 1.3.7.2/94; cp. 1.3.7.5n/96n). We join nothing to our idea
of his parts or qualities, nor do we have a distinct and separate idea
of existence itself (e.g., qua abstract idea). In so far as we have
any clear idea of God we can conceive of him existing or not existing.
From these observations Hume draws the conclusion that the words
“necessary existence, have no meaning; or what is the same
thing, none that is consistent” (D, 9.6/190).

Hume applies this point directly to the claim that “the material
world is not the necessarily existent Being”. If it is possible
to conceive of the material world as not existing the same is true of
God: we can imagine him “to be non-existent, or his attributes
to be altered” (D, 9.7/190). If God’s non-existence is
impossible because of some “unknown inconceivable
qualities”, why should we assume that these qualities do not
belong to matter? All this puts an end to the efforts of Clarke and
likeminded “religious philosophers” to prove that God
necessarily-exists.

Another argument that Hume presents, in criticism of the cosmological
argument, concerns the assumption that an infinite series of causes
and effects requires some explanation or cause for its existence.

… The WHOLE, you say, wants a cause. I answer, that the uniting
of these parts into a whole, like the uniting of several distinct
counties into one kingdom, or several distinct members into one body,
is performed merely by an arbitrary act of mind, and has no influence
on the nature of things. Did I show you the particular cause of each
individual in a collection of twenty particles of matter, I should
think it very unreasonable, should you afterwards ask me, what was the
cause of the whole twenty. This is sufficiently explained in
explaining the cause of the parts. (D, 9.9/190–1)

The step in this argument that seems most questionable is the claim
that because each element in the causal chain has been explained, in
terms of some earlier member of the chain, we have “sufficiently
explained” why there exists any such chain or why this
particular chain exists. Critics will argue that this has plainly not
been done. One response to this is argue that it is a philosophical
mistake to look for an explanation of this kind, on the ground that a
cause must be prior to its effect in time and it is evident that
nothing can be prior to a series of causes and effects that is without
any beginning or exists for eternity (D, 9.8/190). Related to this
point, it may also be argued, more generally, that it is impossible
for us to frame any idea of Creation (i.e., God creating the whole
world) because our idea of causation presupposes a framework of ideas
that already requires the existence of objects in the world
(cp.T,1.3.15.1–10/ 173–4). That is to say, it is a mistake
to conceive of the cosmological question in causal terms because this
takes us beyond the scope of human ideas and understanding.
Hume’s general analysis of the nature of causation, as developed
in the Treatise and first Enquiry, makes clear that
this is his view of this matter. For human beings, therefore, given
our epistemological limits, the existence of this world must be
treated as a basic brute fact that is incapable (for us) of further
explanation.

Finally, Hume’s against the notion of necessary existence have
obvious relevance also for Descartes’s effort, in
Meditations III, to prove that God necessarily exists by way
of reasoning from our (innate) idea of God. Since a priori any thing
may cause any thing, it follows that even if we had an idea of a
perfect being there would be no basis for the claim that God must be
the source of this idea. Similarly, since we have no (abstract) idea
of existence, distinct from the conception of particular objects,
there is no basis for claiming, as does Descartes in
Meditations V, that the idea of God implies his actual
existence. Whatever idea of God we are able to frame is an idea of
something that we can conceive of as either existing or not existing.
Existence is not some further quality or “perfection”
which a being possesses along with its other attributes. There is,
therefore, no contradiction involved in denying that God exists.

An obvious limitation of the cosmological and ontological arguments is
that they are highly abstract and, while they may convince a few
philosophers and theologians, they cannot serve as the basis of
religious belief for most ordinary people (D, 9.11/191–2).
Things are very different, however, in the case of the argument from
design. The defenders of this argument have often claimed that it is
so obvious and convincing that even sceptics cannot seriously doubt or
deny it (D,3.7/154, 12.2/214). The argument from design is discussed
by Hume in Section XI of the first Enquiry and, at greater
length, in the Dialogues (Parts II-VIII, XII). There are also
several references to the argument from design in The Natural
History of Religion (NHR, Intro, 5.2,6.1, 15.1), where Hume
presents it as the most plausible and convincing of the various
arguments that have been advanced on this topic (cp. LG, 24–6).
It is, nevertheless, Hume’s plain intention throughout these
works to expose the weaknesses and limitations of this argument.

At the beginning of Part II of the Dialogues Philo, who
speaks as the “careless sceptic” and is generally
identified as representing Hume’s views, presents a challenge to
the orthodox theist position similar to that which Hobbes had
presented.

But surely, where reasonable men treat these subjects, the question
can never be concerning the being, but only the nature of the Deity.
The former truth, as you well observe, is unquestionable and
self-evident. Nothing exists without a cause; and the original cause
of this universe (whatever it be) we call GOD; and piously ascribe to
him every species of perfection. … But as all perfection is
entirely relative, we ought never to imagine, that we comprehend the
attributes of this divine Being, or to suppose, that his perfections
have any analogy or likeness to the perfections of a human creature.
(D,2.3/142)

In this way, it is Philo’s position that all we know about God
is that he exists (qua cause of the universe) but beyond this we have
no idea or understanding of his nature or attributes. “Our
ideas”, says Philo, “reach no further than experience: We
have no experience of divine attributes and operations: I need not
conclude my syllogism: You can draw the inference yourself.” The
conclusion is that God’s nature is “adorably mysterious
and incomprehensible.” (D,2.4/143)

Philo’s sceptical challenge is met by Cleanthes, who has the
role in the Dialogues of presenting and defending the
argument from design.

Look around the world: Contemplate the whole and every part of it: You
will find it to be nothing but one great machine, subdivided into an
infinite number of lesser machines… All these various machines,
and even their most minute parts, are adjusted to each other with an
accuracy, which ravishes into admiration all men, who have ever
contemplated them. The curious adapting of means to ends, exceeds the
productions of human contrivance; of human design, thought, wisdom,
and intelligence. Since, therefore the effects resemble each other, we
are led to infer, by all the rules of analogy, that the causes also
resemble; and that the Author of nature is somewhat similar to the
mind of man; though possessed of much larger faculties,
proportioned to the grandeur of the work, which he has executed. (D,
2.5/143 — our emphasis)

The structure of this argument seems clear. (1) There is an analogy or
resemblance between the world and man-made machines in respect of
their shared features of order, structure, harmony and the evident way
that their parts are suited to perform some function or serve certain
ends. (2) When we discover an object that has these features (i.e.
order, structure, harmony, etc.) we infer that these objects have not
just come together by chance. For example, if we discover a watch or a
house our experience leads us to believe “that there is an
original principle of order in mind, not in matter” (D,
2.14/146; cp. EU, 4.4/26; 5.7/45). (3) The principle that guides this
inference is that similar effects must arise from similar causes. (4)
It follows from these premises that we can (rationally) infer the
existence of God and “his similarity to human mind and
intelligence” (D, 2.5/143).

Philo maintains that this argument, although methodologically sound in
so far as it is based on experience and not on a priori reasoning,
nevertheless falls well short of what it claims to prove. The first
point that Philo draws our attention to is the weakness of the analogy
between the world and “human productions”. When there is a
close resemblance or “exact similarity” among objects then
we may infer a similar cause.

The exact similarity of the cases gives us a perfect assurance of a
similar event; and a stronger evidence is never desired nor sought
after. But wherever you depart, in the least, from the similarity of
the cases, you diminish proportionably the evidence: and may at last
bring it to a very weak analogy, which is confessedly liable to error
and uncertainty. (D, 2.7/144; cp. T, 1.3.12.25/142)

The importance of this for the argument from design is clear. The gap
between human artifacts and the whole universe is “vast”
(D, 2.8/144, 12.6/216–7, 12.33/227). Any resemblance or
similarity of this kind is so remote and slight that all reasoning on
this basis is “both uncertain and useless” (EU, 11.23
/142). When we use analogies that are this weak and imperfect then
only doubt and uncertainty can result (D, 2.17/147,5.1/165; T,
1.3.12.25/142).

In order to bring out the particular difficulties of the argument from
design, and the way in which it has only the façade of ordinary
experimental reasoning, Hume suggests the analogy of a house. When we
see a house we naturally and reasonably conclude (i.e., with moral
certainty) that “it had an architect or builder; because this is
precisely that species of effect, which we have experienced to proceed
from that species of cause” (D, 2.8/144). When we consider the
universe, however, things are very different. In this case, we have
experience of a unique effect: the universe. Moreover, our experience
of this effect is limited to a small part or a “narrow
corner” of it — from which we must make conjectures about
the whole. Beyond this, we have no experience at all of its cause.
Clearly, then, in a case of this kind we have no experience of
“two species of objects” that are constantly conjoined on
the basis of which we may draw some (reliable) inference (EU,
11.30/148; D, 2.24/149–50).

The contrast between ordinary cases of inference (e.g., house to human
builder) and the design argument may be illustrated this way.

X

=

causes (builders, architects, etc.)

Y

=

effects (houses)

1.

Y1 ---- X1

2.

Y2 ---- X2

3.

Y3 ---- X3

…

*.

Yn /
[Xn]

?

In this case our experience of the constant conjunction of
Xs/Ys enables us
to draw the inference to
Xn, the unobserved cause
of Yn. Our experience is
of a series of conjunctions (1,2,3) where there is a
close resemblance within each species of objects (i.e., among
Xs and among Ys).
We have direct experience of both kinds of objects (i.e.,
both Xs and Ys). In the
case of the design argument our inference has this form.

Z

=

cause (God/creator)

W

=

effect (world/universe)

* <W> / [Z*]
?

We have experience of only oneW
(i.e., our experience of W is unique). Our
experience of W is partial and
incomplete (hence <W>), since
we know only a small part of it in both spacial and temporal terms. We
have no experience of anyZs at
all. In these circumstances the only basis for drawing any conclusion
about the nature of Z* from our (unique and
partial) experience of W is by supposing
that W bears some resemblance to objects
such as Ys, broadly conceived to cover all
human artifacts and productions. There is, however, a vast difference
between these effects. It follows that there is little or no basis for
assuming that Z resembles something like
Xs (i.e., human mind or intelligence).
God’s nature, therefore, remains altogether “mysterious
and incomprehensible” from the point of view of human
understanding.

Cleanthes responds to this set of objections with a counter-example
that is meant to discredit these criticisms and doubts. Suppose we
heard an articulate voice coming from the clouds and the words uttered
contain a message instructing us in a way that is worthy of a great,
superior being. It is not possible, Cleanthes argues, that we would
hesitate for a moment to ascribe some design or purpose to the cause of this voice
and conclude that it bears some resemblance to the intelligent source
of a human voice (D, 3.2–3/152–3). The situation is not so
dissimilar as “when we hear an articulate voice in the dark and
thence infer a man” (D, 3.3/152; cp. EU, 4.4/27). According to
Cleanthes, it is similarly perverse and unnatural to deny that the
various parts of the body and the way in which they are suited to our
environment (e.g., legs for walking) are “incontestable proof of
design and intention” (D, 3.8/155; cp. 2.9/144–5).

The fundamental difficulty with Cleanthes’s example is, however,
that it suggests a non-traditional, anthropomorphic conception of
God’s nature that cannot be overcome other than by arbitrary
stipulation. Given the nature of the analogy, how are we to understand
the nature of God’s mind? Does it have successive, distinct
thoughts? If so, what sense can we make of God’s simplicity and
immutability (D, 4.3/159)? Why should we not assume that God has other
human features such as passions and sentiments, or physical features
such as a mouth or eyes (D, 3.13/156, 5.11/168)? In all cases that we
have experience of, human intelligence is embodied, so why not also
assume that God has a body (D, 6.4–5/171–2)? What this
plainly manifests is that the anthropomorphic conception of God, as
defended by Cleanthes, reflects an egocentric outlook and delusions
about the significance of human life in the universe.

Any experimental reasoning of the kind that the argument from design
employs must ensure that the cause is proportioned to the effect. That
is to say, we cannot “ascribe to the cause any qualities, but
what are exactly sufficient to produce them” (EU,
11.12–3/136; D, 5.8/168). If we follow this principle, however,
we are no longer in a position to assign several fundamental
attributes to God. We cannot, for example, attribute any thing
infinite to God based on our observation and experience of finite
effects. Nor can we attribute unity to the original cause of the
universe on the basis of any analogy to human artifacts such as
houses; as they are often built by a number of people working
together. Perhaps, therefore, there is more than one God involved in
the creation of the universe? More importantly, we are in no position
to attribute perfection to God unless we observe perfection in his
creation. Since there are evidently “many inexplicable
difficulties in the works of nature” we are not justified in
making any inference of this kind (D, 5.6/166–7).

The mistake that Hume particularly warns against, in respect of the
issue of God’s perfection, is that we cannot begin from the
assumption that God is perfect, then assume that his creation is
worthy of him, and then argue, on this basis, that we have evidence
that God is perfect.

You find certain phenomena in nature. You seek a cause or author. You
imagine that you have found him. You afterwards become so enamored of
this offspring of your brain, that you imagine it impossible, but he
must produce something greater and more perfect than the present scene
of things, which is so full of ill and disorder. You forget, that this
superlative intelligence and benevolence are entirely imaginary, or,
at least, without any foundation in reason; and that you have no
ground to ascribe to him any qualities, but what you see he has
actually exerted and displayed in his productions. (EU, 11.15/
137–8)

This problem is, of course, most acute when it comes to the
“reality of evil” that we observe in the world. How do we
vindicate God’s “infinite power and goodness” when
we are faced with overwhelming evidence of (unnecessary and
inexplicable) evil in the world? What we cannot do, Hume argues, is
explain away all evidence of this kind by way of assuming that this
world is the perfect creation of a perfect being. It is this
assumption that needs to be established, so we must not assume it in
our reasoning.

Hume’s aim, in this context, is not to argue that it is
impossible that God is perfect but only that we are in no position to
infer this unless our experience of this world, which is the sole
source of our evidence concerning this issue, is both sufficiently
comprehensive and uniformly consistent with the hypothesis. Plainly,
however, it is neither. It follows from this that many other
hypotheses and conjectures, consistent with the evidence presented,
may be considered as no less plausible. Philo puts this point to
Cleanthes:

In a word, Cleanthes, a man who follows your hypothesis is able,
perhaps, to assert, or conjecture, that the universe, sometime, arose
from something like design: But beyond that position he cannot
ascertain one single circumstance, and is left afterwards to fix
every point of his theology, by the utmost license of fancy and
hypothesis. (D, 5.12/169 — our emphasis)

Philo goes on to suggest that, for all we know, this world “is
very faulty and imperfect, compared to a superior standard”.
Given this, we may also conjecture that this world was created by
“some infant Deity, who afterwards abandoned it, ashamed of his
lame performance” or it is “the production of old age and
dotage in some superannuated Deity”, and so on (D, 5.12/169).
The general point being made is that in the absence of clear evidence
of perfection in this world we must “proportion the cause to the
effect” and resist the temptation of “exaggeration and
flattery to supply the defects of argument and reasoning” (EU,
11.14/137).

Hume’s line of reasoning criticizing the argument from design
presents theists with a basic and seemingly intractable dilemma in
respect of their idea of God. On the one hand, theists such as
Cleanthes want to insist that the analogy between this world and human
productions is not so slight and maintains, on this basis, that God in
some significant degree resembles human intelligence (D,
3.7–8/154–5). The difficulty with this view, as we have
seen, is that it leads to “a degradation of the supreme
being” by way of an anthropomorphism which from the standpoint
of traditional theism involves idolatry and is no better than atheism
(D,2.15/146,3.12–3/156, 4.4–5/160, 5.11/168). On the other
hand, if we follow mystics, such as Demea, we end up no better off
than sceptics and atheists who claim that we know nothing of
God’s nature and attributes and that everything about him is
“unknown and unintelligible” (D, 4.1/158). Hume’s
sceptical technique in the Dialogues, therefore, is to play
one group of theists off against the other, showing that both their
positions end up as nothing better or different from the atheism that
they both claim to abhor.

On the interpretation provided, it is clear that Hume’s critique
of the argument from design is deep and radical. There are, however,
several passages in the final Part of the Dialogues (XII)
that suggest that Philo (Hume) reverses or at least moderates his
position — making some significant concessions to
Cleanthes’s position. The most important evidence of this
appears in a passage at the beginning of Part XII where Philo says
that no one can be so stupid as to reject the view that there are
signs of intention and design in this world and that it is evident, as
Cleanthes has argued, “that the works of nature bear a great
analogy to the productions of art” (D, 12.6/216–7
— my emphasis). Immediately after this, however, Philo proceeds
to reverse his reversal (i.e., he performs a double-reversal). He
insists, in particular, on the verbal or trivial nature of the whole
dispute about whether we should call God a “mind” or
“intelligence” and emphasizes, once again, “the
vast difference, which may reasonably be supposed between him
and human minds” (D, 12.6/216–7 — my emphasis). In
an especially important passage, which was inserted into the
Dialogues shortly before Hume died, Philo elaborates on his
view. The truly pious, he argues, will acknowledge “that there
is a great and immeasurable, because
incomprehensible, difference between the human and the
divine mind” (D, 12.7/218 — my emphasis). On the
other hand, the atheist may allow that there is some “remote
analogy” among the various operations of nature, including
“the rotting of a turnip, the generation of an animal, and the
structure of human thought” (D, 12.7/218). In other words, the
atheist can concede that there is some remote analogy between the
first principle of the universe and several other parts of
nature—only one of which is human thought and mind (D, 12.7/218;
and cp. 7.1/176–7). Hume’s point is that there are other
analogies that are no less plausible than that which Cleanthes has
suggested. These other analogies do not suggest that the cause of this
world is something like mind or human intelligence. Clearly, then, the
atheist may concede that there is some remote analogy between God and
human minds and still insist that there remain other analogies and
hypotheses that are no less plausible. The conclusion to be drawn from
this is that all such analogies are so weak and “remote”
that God’s nature remains an “inexplicable mystery”
well beyond the scope of human understanding (D, 12.33/227; cp. NHR,
15.13).

Hume never retreats from the view stated in the first Enquiry
that God (i.e., the cause of the world) is “a Being, so remote
and incomprehensible, who bears much less analogy to any other being
in the universe than the sun to a waxen taper, and who discovers
himself only by some faint traces or outlines, beyond which we have no
authority to ascribe to him any attribute or perfection” (EU,
11.27/146). This position is indistinguishable from the scepticism
that Hume’s contemporaries associated with Hobbes’s
perceived atheism.

The arguments of Hume’s that we have considered so far may all
be described as sceptical arguments that are critical of efforts to
prove the existence of God. No argument considered so far aims to
prove that God does not or cannot exist. However, in the
Dialogues Hume considers an ancient argument based on the
existence of evil that is intended to establish this negative
conclusion. It comes in the form of “Epicurus’s old
questions” which remain “unanswered” (D, 10.25/198).
The questions are these: Is God willing to prevent evil but unable to
do so? Then he is not omnipotent. Is God able to prevent evil but
unwilling to do so? Then he is malevolent (or at least less than
perfectly good). If God is both willing and able to prevent evil then
why is there evil in the world? (See the entry on the
problem of evil.)
What is at stake here is the possibility of vindicating God’s
moral attributes in face of the existence of evil in this world. It is
clear, as Cleanthes acknowledges, that if this cannot be done then the
case for theism in any traditional form will collapse (D,
10.28/199).

Several different strategies are available to the theist to defuse
this problem — that is, theodicies of various kinds. One
strategy is to deny the reality of evil and insist that the evils we
experience or observe in the world are really “goods to the
universe” which are essential for a perfectly good whole. In
other words, these are only evils relative to our individual, narrow,
human perspective. From the divine perspective, viewing the universe
as one system, the removal of such ills or afflictions would produce
greater ill or diminish the total amount of good in the world. This
strategy may be interpreted as arguing either that there are no real
evils in the world (i.e., only apparent evils) or that there are real
evils in the world but they are all necessary evils — without
which the whole system of nature would not be so perfect (Cp. D,
10.5–7/194; EU, 8.34/101).

In respect of the first view, that there is no real evil, Hume takes
the view that it is plainly contrary to human experience. The reality
of the distinction between good and evil — whether physical or
moral — depends on “the natural sentiments of the human
mind”. These distinctions, based on feeling, cannot be altered
or amended “by any philosophical theory or speculation
whatsoever” (EU, 8.34–5/101–03). In the
Dialogues Hume opens his discussion of the problem of evil by
having Philo (the sceptic) run through a long catalogue of the variety
and extent of misery and suffering in this world. He begins with
animal suffering of various kinds (the strong preying on the weak
etc.) and moves on to human suffering in its numerous forms (illness,
emotional torments, war etc.). Even religion (i.e.,
“superstition”) is a source of fear and anxiety. Despite
this catalogue of human suffering and grief, we find ourselves too
afraid of death to put an end to our miserable existence. “We
are terrified, not bribed to the continuance of our existence.”
(D, 10.17/197) The conclusion that Philo draws from all this is that
“the course of nature tends not to human or animal
felicity” –which brings us back to “Epicurus’s
old questions” (D, 10.25/198).

The first line of reply to this comes from Demea (the mystic) who
argues that “the present evil phenomena … are rectified
in other regions, and in some future period of existence” (D,
10.29/199). This is a view that is immediately corrected by Cleanthes
along similar lines to those that Hume also presents in the first
Enquiry. The problem here is that if we grant, with Demea,
the reality of evil in this world then in so far as our understanding
of God’s attributes is based on the evidence of his creation in
this world, we are in no position to infer the “perfect goodness
of the Deity”.

Now without some such license of supposition, it is impossible for us
to argue from the cause, or infer any alteration in the effect, beyond
what has immediately fallen under our observation. Greater good
produced by this Being must still prove a greater degree of goodness:
a more impartial distribution of rewards and punishments must proceed
from a greater regard to justice and equity. Every supposed addition
to the works of nature makes an addition to the attributes of the
Author of nature; and consequently, being entirely unsupported by any
reason or argument, can never be admitted but as a mere conjecture and
hypothesis. (EU, 11.26/ 145)

Hume’s point is not that the reality of evil proves that God
cannot be both omnipotent and perfectly good but that we are in no
position to claim that we know that God will “rectify” the
evil of this world (e.g., its unjust distribution of good and evil) in
a future state, since the evidence of this world does not support such
a conjecture. Our predicament is like that of a person who stands in
the porch that leads into a very different building or structure and
must conjecture what the complete or whole plan is like. We may hope
or imagine that something better awaits us but the present phenomena
do not license a conjecture or hypothesis of this kind (EU, 11.21,24/
141,143).

Faced with this difficulty, Cleanthes insists that contrary to all
that Philo and Demea have claimed, we must allow that there is more
happiness than misery, more pleasure than pain, in this world. Failing
this, “there is an end at once of all religion” (D,
10.28/199). Philo’s response is that this is a fatal concession.
Not only will it be hard to prove that there is more happiness than
misery in the world, much more than this is needed to vindicate
God’s moral attributes. Unless all evil is essential or
necessary the religious position will collapse. Any degree or kind of
unnecessary evil — however small — would tell against the
existence of God as an infinitely powerful and perfectly good being.
The usual reply to this (echoing God’s answer to Job) is that we
humans are in no position to tell whether there is any unnecessary
evil in this world –for all we know, all the evil in this world
is indeed necessary evil. It is arrogance to question God’s
existence and goodness when we lack understanding of the infinite
complexities of his creation.

The central thrust of Hume’s discussion of evil in the
Dialogues is to show that this kind of theodicy fails.

I will allow, that pain or misery in man is compatible with
infinite power and goodness in the Deity, even in your sense of these
attributes: What have you advanced by all these concessions? A mere
possible compatibility is not sufficient. You must prove these pure
unmixed, and uncontrollable attributes from the present mixed and
confused phenomena, and from these alone. (D,10.35/201)

Philo goes on to point out that even if the phenomena of nature were
“pure and unmixed” (i.e., entirely good) they are still
finite and so insufficient to prove God’s infinite perfection
and goodness. The phenomena of nature are, in any case, not only
finite, they are a mixture of good and evil, so any effort to prove
God’s “infinite power and goodness” on this basis is
a hopeless task. Here Philo claims to “triumph” (D,
10.36/201). Further on, Philo returns to this point.

… as this goodness is not antecedently established, but must be
inferred from the phenomena, there can be no grounds for such an
inference, while there are so many ills in the universe, and while
these ills might so easily have been remedied, as far as human
understanding can be allowed to judge on such a subject. I am sceptic
enough to allow, that the bad appearances, notwithstanding all my
reasonings, may be compatible with such attributes as you suppose: But
surely they can never prove these attributes. (D, 11.12/211)

Clearly, then, the task required of traditional theism cannot be to
establish merely the possibility that the existence of evil is
consistent with God’s existence, it is to explain how we can
infer God’s infinite power and goodness on the basis of our
experience of finite phenomena that presents us with a mixture of good
and evil in this world. It is this task, Philo maintains, that
Cleanthes has failed to perform.

The subtlety of Hume’s argument is now clear. There is no need
for the sceptic to launch a strong argument that aims to prove that
God cannot exist on the basis of the real existence of evil in this
world. All that the sceptic needs to do is to show that the theist is
unable to prove or establish God’s attributes of infinite power
and goodness given the evidence of creation as we observe it. What the
theist must do, in order to meet this challenge, is to show that all
the evil that exists in this world (i.e., every last degree and
measure of it) is necessary and unavoidable. It is clear that the
theist is in no position to support this claim. The mere possibility
that this is the case will not suffice to justify the inference to
God’s infinite power and goodness. We cannot, therefore,
establish God’s moral attributes along the lines that Cleanthes
has suggested.

Hume’s “concession” that evil and God’s
existence are compatible may have the appearance of (another)
“retreat” from a stronger sceptical position. The
significance of this concession should not be exaggerated. While the
sceptic cannot prove that there does indeed exist some unnecessary
evil in the world, it is nevertheless possible to show that this view
of things is in no way unreasonable. Hume describes a fourfold
catalogue of causes of evil in this world none of which “appear
to human reason, in the least degree, necessary or unavoidable”
(D, 11.5/205). He asks, for example, why animal creation is not
animated entirely by pleasure, as it appears “plainly possible
to carry on the business of life without any pain” (D,
11.6/206). Similarly, why could God not have been more generous in
providing his creatures with better endowments for their survival and
happiness (i.e., why is God not more of an “indulgent
parent”)? (D, 11.9/208) Again, why does nature run into such
extremes in relation to heat and cold, rains, winds, and so on? Surely
things could have been arranged so that these extremes and their
destructive consequences could be avoided? Finally, Hume asks why God
does not act through particular volitions to prevent specific
catastrophes and disasters (e.g., why not ensure there is no storm
blowing when a fleet is out at sea)? (D,11.8/206) In all these cases,
Hume grants, there may “be good reasons, why providence
interposes not in this manner; but they are unknown to us” (D,
11.8/207). The implication of all this is not just that we have no
reason to infer the existence of an infinitely powerful and good God
but that we have considerable reason for doubting it.

Given these considerations regarding the causes of evil, and the
limits of human understanding, what is the most reasonable hypothesis
concerning the first cause of the universe? Philo dismisses the
suggestion that the first cause is either perfectly good or perfectly
malevolent on the ground that “mixed phenomena” can never
prove either of the unmixed principles as the first cause. This leaves
only two other possibilities. Either the first cause has both goodness
and malice or it has neither. Philo argues that the steady and orderly
nature of the world suggests that no such (Manichean)
“combat” between good and evil is going on. So the most
plausible hypothesis is that “the original source of all
things” is just as indifferent about “good above
ill” as it is about heat above cold (D, 11.14/211–2).
Nature is blind and uncaring regarding such matters and there is no
basis for the supposition that the world has been created with human
or animal happiness or comfort in mind. Any supposition of this kind
is nothing better than an anthropomorphic prejudice (EU, 11.27/146;
cp. D, 10.31/200).

The tendency of Hume’s discussion of evil, in both the
Enquiry and Dialogues, is to insist on the reality
of evil and the doubts that this casts on any claim that the beauty,
harmony and order of this world provides us with clear evidence that
an infinitely powerful and good being created and governs it. As we
have noted, Hume’s argument falls short of categorically denying
that God exists on the ground that there is unnecessary evil in this
world. What Hume’s arguments do show, however, is that while it
is possible that the reality of evil is consistent with the existence
of God this leaves theism with a large and significant problem that
remains unanswered. The enormous degree of evil in this world, and the
vast range of forms that it takes, are impossible to explain or
justify from our human perspective (i.e., given the limits of human
understanding). There is, therefore, no basis for inferring the
existence of an infinitely powerful and good God in face of contrary
evidence of this kind — evidence that provides us with
considerable grounds for doubting this conjecture or hypothesis.

Miracles are an essential and fundamental element of the major
monotheistic religions (i.e., Judaism, Christianity, Islam). The
accounts of
miracles,
as presented in scripture and elsewhere, are supposed to confirm the
authenticity and authority of scripture and the prophets and, more
importantly, establish that God has revealed himself to human beings
through these special acts or events. From the point of view of
Christianity, one miracle of particular significance is the
resurrection of Jesus Christ. To doubt or question the truth of this
event is to doubt the core and distinct meaning and doctrine of the
Christian religion. It would be to cast doubt on the claim that Christ
is God and the saviour of human kind. A major concern of Hume’s,
especially as presented in Section X of the first Enquiry,
was to discredit miracle claims of this kind — a concern Hume
shared with many other religious critics of his day (see Burns
1981).

According to Hume’s account, “a miracle is a violation of
a law of nature” (EU, 11.12/114). More specifically, it is
“a transgression of a law of nature by a particular volition of
the Deity, or by the interposition of some invisible agent” (EU,
11.12n/115n). As defined, a miracle may occur without any person
observing it (i.e., it may be completely unknown). Hume’s
additional proviso that a miracle is not only a violation of a law of
nature but also requires the direct activity of God (or some
“invisible agent”) is a significant qualification. It
follows from this that we cannot establish that a miracle has occurred
by showing only that the laws of nature have been violated, as this
may only be a chance or capricious event (EU, 8.25/96; cp. T,
1.3.13.33/171). Nevertheless, the key issue, for Hume’s critique
of miracles, is whether or not we ever have reason to believe on the
basis of testimony that a law of nature has been violated.
Hume’s arguments lead to the conclusion that we never have
reason to believe miracle reports as passed on to us.

A law of nature, as Hume interprets it, involves a uniform regularity
of events. We discover laws of nature on the basis of our experience
of constant conjunctions of events or objects. An obvious example of
this, provided by Hume, is that “all men must die” (EU,
11.12/114). It would, therefore, be “a miracle, that a dead man
should come to life” because we have “uniform
experience” that tells against such a claim (EU, 11.12/ 115).
When we have uniform experience that confirms the existence of
regularities of this kind we have, says Hume, “a direct and full
proof, from the nature of the fact, against the existence of the
miracle” (EU, 11.12/115). The point that Hume is concerned to
make here is that the “ultimate standard” by which we must
judge whether a miracle has occurred is (much) higher than it is in
the case of other reports claiming to establish some unusual or
unexpected event. It is, for example, no miracle that a man in good
health should suddenly die. Although an event of this kind may be
improbable, it does sometimes occur. In the case of miracles, however,
we are asked to believe something that is contrary to all other
experience and observation (e.g., resurrection from the dead).
Miracles must be unique (or nearly unique) events otherwise they fall
within the “common course of nature”, no matter how rare
and unusual the event may be.

Given this account of miracles, understood as violations of laws of
nature, how should we evaluate claims that miracles have occurred? The
principle that Hume relies on, for this purpose, is that a reasonable
person “proportions his belief to the evidence” (EU,
11.4/110). In the case of miracles, the relevant evidence that we need
to weigh comes from two distinct sources that must be balanced against
each other. On one side, there is the question of the credibility of
the witnesses to the event. That is to say, we need to ask if we can
rely on the truthfulness and judgment of the individual(s) who report
that the relevant event took place. On the other side, there is the
question of the credibility of the fact itself (i.e., that a violation
of a law of nature occurred). Clearly, in circumstances where there is
some opposition between these two sets of considerations, the
reasonable person will believe that which has the superior evidence in
its support.

If we follow this procedure, Hume claims, we must conclude that
“no testimony for any kind of a miracle has ever amounted to a
probability, much less to a proof; and that, even supposing it
amounted to a proof, it would be opposed by another
proof….” (EU, 11.35/ 127). Hume establishes this general
point in two related moves. The evidence telling against the
occurrence of a miracle must always constitute a full proof —
since we have uniform human experience in support of the laws of
nature (EU, 11.12/115). It follows from this:

That no testimony is sufficient to establish a miracle, unless the
testimony be of such a kind, that its falsehood would be more
miraculous, than the fact, which it endeavours to establish; and even
in that case there is a mutual destruction of arguments… (EU,
11.13 / 116)

The only basis for giving any credibility to miracle reports –
since by their nature they are wholly unlikely — is to give
weight and credibility to the character and authority of the witnesses
to the event(s). However, even in the optimal case, where the
credibility of the witnesses and their reports are judged to be beyond
doubt and wholly reliable, we are faced with evidence that is equally
opposed — “proof against proof”.

Hume’s argument, up to this point, supposes that the testimony
in support of a miracle “amounts to an entire proof” and
is wholly reliable. However, the fact is, Hume argues, that this
concession is “a great deal too liberal”. If we consider
the specific circumstances and conditions in which miracle reports
generally occur, and the sources they come from, Hume believes we will
have to conclude that testimony in support of actual historical
miracles, of the kind that the major religions rely on, are far from
reliable. The relevant standards by which we judge the reliability of
testimony (i.e. in ordinary life — including law and history, as
well as religion) involve several different considerations. Hume
mentions four categories of consideration about the reliability of
testimony. Each of them is such that the credibility of the testimony
may be diminished when we give due weight to these factors.

The first category concerns the witnesses to the event. Obviously the
credibility of an event increases when more witnesses attest to it. We
also need to know about the character and competence of the
witness(es). If they are educated, sensible and critical we will more
readily believe them than if they are ignorant and gullible. A second
category of consideration that Hume mentions is that there is a
general psychological weakness in human nature whereby we want to
believe in events that produce feelings of surprise and wonder because
these are “agreeable emotions” (EU, 11.16/117).

As belief is almost absolutely requisite to the exciting our passions,
so the passions in their turn are very favourable to belief…
Admiration and surprise have the same effect as the other passions;
and accordingly we may observe, that among the vulgar, quacks and
projectors meet with a more easy faith upon account of their
magnificent pretensions, than if they kept themselves within the
bounds of moderation. The first astonishment, which naturally attends
their miraculous relations, spreads itself over the whole soul, and so
vivifies and enlivens the idea that it resembles the inferences we
draw from experience. (T, 1.3.10.4 / 120)

This natural disposition leads to credulity and “subdues the
understanding” (EU, 11.17/ 117–8; T, 1.3.9.12 / 113).
“Love of wonder” is often joined with “the spirit of
religion” whereby the religionist, “with the best
intentions in the world, for the sake of promoting so holy a
cause”, is more powerfully drawn to belief (EU, 11.17 /
117–8). Hume also notes that lies have been told in all ages and
that the frequent repetition of lies promotes belief (T, 1.3.9.19 /
117; cp. T, 1.3.5.6 / 86). More generally, custom and education
influence belief and in many cases “take such deep root that
‘tis impossible for us, by all the powers of reason and
experience to eradicate them” (T, 1.3.9.17 / 116). The third
range of factors Hume mentions are the variable historical and social
conditions that affect credulity. Although there is a universal
propensity to credulity, Hume notes that miraculous and supernatural
events “are observed chiefly to abound among ignorant and
barbarous nations” (EU, 11.20 / 119). Finally, the authority of
miracle reports is diminished by the consideration that the miracle
reports coming from rival religions tend to diminish the authority and
credibility of all of them (EU, 11.24 / 121–2). The result of
giving weight to these various considerations is that the credulity of
actual historical miracle claims is radically diminished. Hume
believes that there is no probability left in support of them.

Hume’s views on miracles have been criticized from a variety of
perspectives. Some critics have claimed that Hume, in laying down that
miracles run up against uniform experience, is simply assuming at the
outset that the probability of miracle occurrences is equal to zero
(see Johnson 1999 and Earman 2003). In response to this is has been
pointed out that Hume’s concern is not with the factual question
as to whether miracles have occurred or not, but with the epistemic
question of whether it can be rational to believe miracle reports
(see, e.g., Fogelin 2003). An even more problematic line of criticism
consists in claiming that Hume denies the very possibility of miracles
occurring. As it stands, this misrepresents his view. According to
Hume, miracles are entirely possible in the sense that there is no
absurdity or contradiction involved in suggesting that the laws of
nature are violated — this is at least conceivable. Nor does
Hume deny that rare, unusual, surprising and wonderous events do
actually occur. There may even be circumstances when extraordinary
events of this kind may be justifiably believed on the basis of
testimony (EU, 11.36 /127–8). Moreover, Hume also recognizes
that events frequently occur that are unexpected and which we do not
know the cause(s) of (EU, 8.12–4 / 86–7). None of these
considerations, however, show that the laws of nature have actually
been violated. On the contrary, our experience shows that when
“irregular and extraordinary” events do occur a closer
examination and investigation generally uncovers the relevant
“hidden” or “concealed” causes that were at
work. Only the ignorant and vulgar conclude, in circumstances of this
kind, that the laws of nature have been violated or that a miracle has
occurred. It is in this sense that Hume maintains that miracles do not
occur. In this way, the evidence of experience shows us, Hume
suggests, that nature is uniform and regular. When this appears not to
be so, subsequent experience and closer investigation reveals that
this is a sign only of human ignorance and credulity, not of any
(incomprehensible) divine activity.

What really matters for assessing Hume’s critique of miracles is
to keep in mind that his primary aim is to discredit the actual
historical miracle claims that are supposed to provide authority and
credibility for the major established religions — most
obviously, Christianity. From this perspective, the central issue is
not whether Hume is right in claiming that it is impossible for any
miracle claim to be established as morally certain (i.e.,
“proved”), but if he is right in claiming that the
historical miracle claims supporting the major religions such as
Christianity pass this standard. It is Hume’s judgment that when
we weigh the relevant evidence, and proportion our belief accordingly,
we will find that these claims are rationally unbelievable.

According to Joseph Butler, an influential contemporary of
Hume’s, the most important question that can possibly be asked
is whether we are to live in a future state. It was Butler’s
view that the doctrine of future rewards and punishments is
fundamental to religion and essential for its practical influence over
human life and conduct. This view of the importance of the doctrine of
future rewards and punishments was accepted by almost all the leading
theologians at this time (and is, of course, still widely accepted
among religious thinkers today). It is evident that the immortality of
the soul is an essential part of this doctrine. For Hume’s
contemporaries, proofs of the immortality of the soul generally
depended upon showing that the soul is immaterial.

There are two “metaphysical” arguments that aim to
establish the immateriality of the soul that Hume is especially
concerned with. The first argument, which is Platonic in origin,
maintains that whereas mind is simple, unitary and indivisible, matter
is compounded and infinitely divisible. It follows from this,
according to this argument, that mind is distinct from matter and that
only an immaterial being or substance is capable of thought and
consciousness. Moreover, since immaterial minds are simple and
indivisible they are incapable of destruction and continue to exist
eternally (unless annihilated by divine power). A second and related
argument is that it is impossible for matter and motion to produce
thought and consciousness. For this to be possible we must suppose
that a cause can produce effects that possess perfections that it
lacks. Once again, this would be to suppose that something could be
produced by nothing, which is absurd and contradictory.

Hume rejects both these metaphysical arguments for the immateriality
and immortality of the soul. His refutations are presented, first, in
the Treatise 1.4.5–6 and, later and more briefly, in
his essay “Of the Immortality of the Soul”. (It is
possible that this essay contains material that was originally
intended for publication in the Treatise but was withdrawn.)
Regarding the suggestion that thought and consciousness must belong to
or inhere in an immaterial substance, Hume objects that we have no
idea of either immaterial or material substance.

But just as metaphysics teach us, that the notion of substance is
wholly confused and imperfect, and that we have no other idea of any
substance than as an aggregate of particular qualities, inhering in an
unknown something. Matter, therefore, and spirit are at bottom equally
unknown; and we cannot determine what qualities may inhere in the one
or in the other. (ESY, 591)

The important and intelligible issue, according to Hume, is not the
question of the substance of thought but that concerning the cause of
our perceptions (T, 1.4.5.29/ 246f). In respect of this issue, Hume
invokes his general causal maxim that “any thing may produce any
thing” in order to establish that a priori it is possible that
matter may be the cause of thought (T, 1.4.5.30 / 247). Furthermore,
experience shows us, Hume maintains, that there do exist constant
conjunctions between matter and motion, on one side, and thought and
consciousness on the other. Clearly, then, in so far as we have any
idea of causation as it exists in the world, we must conclude that
thought and consciousness can indeed arise from matter and motion (as
the materialists maintain). In his essay on “Immortality”
Hume expands on these points to argue that the evidence of experience
shows us that thought and consciousness depends on our bodily
existence and, therefore, bodily death must imply death of the mind as
well (ESY, 596; cp. D, 6.5/171).

Apart from Hume’s sceptical arguments directed against the
immateriality and immortality of the soul, he also advances sceptical
arguments concerning the doctrine of future rewards and punishments.
In the context of Section XI of the first Enquiry, as we have
already noted, Hume argues that we have no adequate evidence,
“derived from the present phenomena” of this world, that a
future state will correct the injustices of this world. Hume presents
the “religionist” with the following difficulty:

Are there any marks of a distributive justice in this world? If you
answer in the affirmative, I conclude that, since justice here exerts
itself, it is satisfied. If you reply in the negative, I conclude,
that you have then no reason to ascribe justice, in our sense of it,
to the gods. If you hold a medium between affirmation and negation, by
saying, that the justice of the gods, at present, exerts itself in
part but not to its full extent; I answer, that you have no reason to
give it any particular extent, but only so far as you see it, at
present, exert itself. (EU, 11.22 / 141–2 —
Hume’s emphasis)

In the Treatise Hume advanced another set of arguments
against the doctrine of a future state. In this context he argues that
any idea or belief in life in a future state is too faint and weak to
have any practical influence over our passions and conduct.

A future state is so far remov’d from our comprehension, and we
have so obscure an idea of the manner, in which we shall exist after
the dissolution of the body, that all the reasons we can invent,
however strong in themselves, and however much assisted by education,
are never able with slow imaginations to surmount this difficulty, or
bestow a sufficient authority and force on the idea. (T, 1.3.9.13 /
114)

In general, says Hume, the lack of resemblance between this life and a
future state destroys belief and, consequently, has little influence
on our passions and conduct. Hume claims “there scarce are any,
who believe the immortality of the soul with a true and established
judgment” (T, 1.3.9.14 / 114–5). The evidence for this is
that our conduct is usually guided with a view to the pleasures and
pains, rewards and punishments, of this life and not a future state
(T, 1.3.9.14 / 115; cp. D, 12.13/220–01).

Hume adds a further set of objections relating to the morally
pernicious aspects of the doctrine of a future state of rewards and
punishments. Among the several arguments that he puts forward on this
score, four points are especially important. In the first place, Hume
asks, what is the point or purpose of punishment in a future state? In
this life we assume that punishment must not only be deserved, it must
also achieve some relevant social end or value (e.g., contribute to
the stability and peace of society). When we are removed from this
world these goals are taken away and punishment becomes pointlessly
retributive (ESY, 594). The implication of this is that punishment
without any further point or purpose is mere vengeance that lacks any
proper justification. Second, Hume asks on what basis God determines
the extent of our merit and demerit. Among human beings the standard
of merit and demerit depends on our moral sentiments and our sense of
pleasure and pain. Are we to suppose that God also has human passions
and feelings of this kind? (ESY, 594,595; cp. LET, I, 40 [#16]; D,
3.13/156) Third, the doctrine of eternal damnation clearly involves
excessive punishment — even for the worst of crimes. Finally,
the split between Heaven and Hell supposes “two distinct species
of men, the good and the bad. But the greatest part of mankind float
between vice and virtue.” (ESY, 594)

Hume’s position on the doctrine of a future state is clear. From
every point of view this doctrine is considered unsound. It depends on
metaphysical assumptions about the nature of mind (soul) that are
philosophically unconvincing, involving obscure ideas that are plainly
at odds with our everyday experience and observations concerning the
relationship between mind and body. It also depends on assumptions
about God’s goodness and justice that lack any adequate
philosophical justification. Moreover, because the ideas and arguments
involved in this doctrine are considered by Hume to be obscure and
unconvincing, we find, in practice, that the doctrine has little or no
influence in directing human conduct. Finally, not only is this
doctrine considered by Hume to be philosophically flawed and
psychologically feeble, it depends on moral principles that are both
unjust and corrupting.

In 1757 Hume published “The Natural History of
Religion”, a work that proposes to identify and explain the
origins and evolution of religious belief. This project follows lines
of investigation and criticism that had already been laid down by a
number of other thinkers, including Lucretius, Hobbes and Spinoza.
Hume’s primary objective in this work is to show that the
origins and foundations of religious belief do not rest with reason or
philosophical arguments of any kind but with aspects of human nature
that reflect our weaknesses, vulnerabilities and limitations (i.e.,
fear and ignorance). Related to this point, Hume also wants to show
that the basic forces in human nature and psychology that shape and
structure religious belief are in conflict with each other and that,
as a result of this, religious belief is inherently unstable and
variable. In arguing for these points, Hume is directly challenging an
opposing view, one that was widely held among his own orthodox
contemporaries. According to this view (e.g., as presented by
Cleanthes), the evidence of God’s existence is so obvious that
no one sincerely and honestly doubts it. Belief in an intelligent,
invisible creator and governor of the world is a universal belief
rooted in and supported by reason. From this perspective, no person
sincerely accepts “speculative atheism”. Hume’s
“naturalistic” approach to religion aims to discredit
these claims and assumptions of theism.

According to Hume, all that the various religions in the world have in
common is belief that there is an invisible, intelligent power in the
world (NHR, Intro, 4.1). Although there is a “universal
propensity to believe in invisible, intelligent power” (NHR,
15.5), even religious belief of this limited kind is not entirely
universal or any sort of “original instinct”. Hume also
points out that religion of this most general kind is not to be
confused with “genuine theism”. Genuine theism involves a
more specific set of beliefs: that there is only one god and that god
is the invisible, intelligent creator and governor of the world (NHR,
4.2). In several different contexts in The Natural History of
Religion Hume suggests that the argument from design —
based on our observation of beauty and order in the world — is a
convincing and plausible basis for genuine theism (NHR, Intro, 6.1,
15.1). However, despite this veil of orthodoxy, his objective
throughout this work is to show that the actual foundation of genuine
theism, as we find it in the world, does not rest with reasoning or
arguments of any kind. The true roots of genuine theism can be
discovered in the psychological dynamics that first give rise to
polytheism. The same (irrational) forces that shape polytheism serve
to explain the rise of theism and the instability and variations that
we discover within it.

Hume maintains that “polytheism or idolatry was, and must have
been, the first and most ancient religion of mankind” (NHR,
1.1). Not only does the evidence of history make this clear (Hume
discounts the historical reliability of the Hebrew Bible, which, as is
well-known, presents a different picture), we know as well that if
theism, based on the (obvious and convincing) argument of design, were
the original religion then it would be impossible to explain how
polytheism could have ever arisen out of it. That is to say, the
argument from design would continue to have the same force and so we
should not expect any deviation from it. What, then, is the origin of
polytheism? The basis of polytheism is not the beauty and order we
discover in the works of nature, as that leads us to genuine theism,
it is rather “the various and contrary events of human
life”. These are events (e.g., weather, illness, wars, etc.)
that are unpredictable but important to us because they directly
influence human happiness and misery. In respect of these events,
which engage our deepest hopes and fears, we are generally ignorant of
the causes that are involved in producing them — especially when
human beings are in a more primitive and backward state of society. In
these circumstances, the “ignorant multitude” conceives of
these unknown causes as depending on invisible, intelligent agents who
they may influence by means of prayers and sacrifice. By this means,
human beings hope to control what they do not understand and are
afraid of. As a result of this process, as shaped by human fears and
ignorance, the world becomes populated with human-like invisible,
intelligent powers that are objects of worship.

The religion of polytheism is very different from genuine theism in so
far as it does not concern itself with the (abstract and speculative)
question concerning the origin or supreme government of the universe.
These are questions that primitive people who are struggling for their
daily survival do not have time to speculate about. To this extent,
therefore, polytheists and idolaters may be regarded as
“superstitious atheists”, as they plainly have no idea of
a being that corresponds to our idea of God (NHR, 4.2). From their
perspective, however, genuine theists are guilty of atheism, since
they deny the existence of the “subordinate deities” that
polytheists worship (NHR, 4.10n27). The clear implication of these
observations is that the notion of “atheism” — along
with its negative connotations – is entirely relative to a
particular religion and its particular conception of god or gods.

The question that Hume now turns to is how theism arose from
polytheism. In respect of this issue, Hume observes that there are two
conflicting tendencies in human nature.

And thus, however strong men’s propensity to believe invisible,
intelligent power in nature, their propensity is equally strong to
rest their attention on sensible, visible objects; and in order to
reconcile these opposite inclinations, they are led to unite the
invisible power with some visible object. (NHR, 5.2)

These conflicting demands are best satisfied by representing the
various gods as something like ourselves and attributing particular
qualities and attributes to them that are relevant to their specific
sphere of influence (e.g., the god of war is cruel and ferocious
etc.). Over time, among the vulgar, one of these gods will gradually
emerge as a particular object of veneration and worship. In their
anxiety to please and praise this god, worshippers will continually
try to outdo their predecessors by attributing greater and greater
powers and perfections to him. At last they will reach a point where
they represent this god as infinite and entirely perfect, whereby they
render his nature inexplicable and mysterious. The irony about this,
Hume wryly observes, is that the vulgar arrive at a more
“philosophical” conception of God by way of a process that
is shaped by principles that are entirely unguided by reason.

At this stage, Hume’s genealogy of religion presents us with an
account of the same general conflict that he portrays in
Dialogues between Cleanthes’s anthropomorphism and
Demea’s mysticism. This conflict, as Hume explains it, has deep
roots in the dynamics of human nature and our conflicting
propensities. The result of this process is an inherent instability in
theism itself. On the one side, there is a tendency, originally
present in polytheism, to anthropomorphize the gods in the hope of
placating and controlling them. On the other side, our
“exaggerated praise and compliments” produce a refined and
abstract idea of god that no longer satisfies the vulgar imagination.
The result of this situation is that there is “a kind of flux
and reflux in the human mind, and that men have a natural tendency to
rise from idolatry to theism, and to sink again from theism into
idolatry” (NHR, 8.1).

The feeble apprehensions of men cannot be satisfied with conceiving
their deity as a pure spirit and perfect intelligence; and yet their
natural terrors keep them from imputing to him the least shadow of
limitation and imperfection. They fluctuate between these opposite
sentiments. (NHR, 8.2)

This influence of the human passions and propensities affects the
stability of our idea of God in another way. Our natural fear of
future events encourages a conception of God that is severe and cruel.
At the same time, “the spirit of praise and eulogy”
promotes an entirely contrary view (NHR, 176). Clearly, the general
point that Hume aims to establish by means of these observations is
that the natural sources of religion are in conflict with one another
and generate a continual cycle of opposition and instability in our
religious beliefs and idea of god.

Hume’s primary aim in The Natural History of Religion,
as we have noted, is to show that the origin and foundations of
religious belief does not rest with reason or philosophical argument.
The origins of religious belief rest with human fear and ignorance,
which gives rise, in the first place, to polytheism. The same
psychological forces that give rise to polytheism gradually transform
it into a system of theism. This system of theism is, however, itself
a product of conflicting tendencies in human nature that result in an
unstable oscillation between anthropomorphic and mystical ideas of
god. As a result of this instability, there is a natural tendency for
theism to slide back into some form of polytheism that postulates
“demi-gods”, in order to satisfy the human need to have
some image or impression of God (NHR, 8.2, 15.5). Hume’s remarks
on this tendency allude, clearly enough, to the case of Jesus Christ
understood as the (human) incarnation of God.

The conclusion that Hume draws from all this is that religion
generally rests on human weaknesses and vulnerabilities and that
reason has little influence over its evolution or stability. While
“genuine theism” presents a view of God that is sublime
and magnificent, most religion degrades and disfigures the idea of
god.

Survey most nations and most ages. Examine the religious principles,
which have, in fact, prevailed in the world. You will scarcely be
persuaded, that they are any thing but sick men’s dreams. Or
perhaps will regard them more as the playsome whimsies of monkeys in
human shape, than the serious, positive, dogmatical assertions of a
being who dignifies himself with the name of rational. (NHR, 184)

Richard Bentley, the first Boyle lecturer, neatly states the view that
many theists hold concerning the relationship between religion and
morality:

And if Atheism should be supposed to become universal in this
nation… farewell all ties of friendship and principles of
honor; all love for our country and loyalty to our prince; nay,
farewell all government and society itself, all professions and arts,
and conveniences of life, all that is laudable or valuable in the
world. [Bentley, Folly of Atheism, in Works, III,
25]

The general view defended by Bentley, and many other apologists for
religion, is that without religious principles and institutions to
guide and motivate us, the moral world will collapse into nihilism,
egoism and the arbitrary rule of power. This view of things was
further confirmed, as Hume’s near contemporaries saw it, by the
philosophy of Hobbes. Hobbes’s basic philosophical project was
to advance a secular, scientific account of moral and political life.
The foundation of this, however, rests with egoism and moral
scepticism. That is to say, according to Hobbes, human nature is
driven by psychological egoism and there is no real distinction
between good and evil, right and wrong, just or unjust. It was a major
task of Hume’s philosophy — particularly as presented in
the Treatise — to reconstruct Hobbes’s secular,
scientific account of morality while at the same time avoiding the
extreme (undiluted) elements of moral scepticism and egoism present in
it. Another way of stating these aims, is to say that Hume wanted to
show that “speculative atheism” did not imply
“practical atheism” or moral licentiousness.

As already noted, Hume’s Treatise appears to be
modelled after the same plan as Hobbes’s project of a
“science of man” as presented in The Elements of
Law and Leviathan. On the basis of a naturalistic and
necessitarian conception of human nature, Hume aims to show how moral
motivation and practice is possible (i.e., to describe the possibility
and reality of “virtuous atheism”). There are several key
elements in Hume’s system of secular ethics. One important
element is the role of the indirect passions in accounting for the
sanctions and support provided to moral life. On Hume’s theory
the virtues and vices are understood as simply pleasurable or painful
qualities of mind (cp. T, 3.1.2). A vicious character, he argues,
produces hate and humility (dishonour and shame) that makes us
unhappy. In contrast with this, virtue produces love and pride, which
makes us happy. This is the fundamental mechanism by which virtue is
rewarded and vice is punished. This mechanism operates no less
effectively among atheists, who have no belief in God or a future
state, as it does among those with traditional theistic beliefs.

Another key element in Hume’s system of secular ethics is the
role of sympathy. We are naturally constituted, Hume maintains, to
share the emotions of our fellow human beings. The closer our
relationship, and the more we resemble each other, the stronger the
communication of emotion will be (T, 2.1.11;
2.2.5.14–21/362–5). By means of this principle of
sympathy, human beings naturally take an interest in the happiness and
welfare of others — especially our family, friends and
neighbours. Hume denies, therefore, that human nature is wholly
selfish or without any benevolent concerns or dispositions. At the
same time, Hume also emphasizes the point that our sympathetic and
benevolent tendencies are limited and highly partial — both of
which pose serious obstacles for social peace and cooperation. Hume
denies, in particular, that there is any “such passion in human
minds, as love of mankind, merely as such, independent of personal
qualities, of services, or of relation to oneself” (T, 3.2.1.12/
481). In this way, while Hume plainly rejects Hobbist egoism and
allows that we are naturally social beings in a number of significant
respects (i.e., family, friends etc.), he also insists that our human
nature is such that self-love and partiality are extremely strong and
can and do lead to competition and conflict. This is something that we
must find a solution to if we are to be able to live together in
groups larger than families and small clans.

Our human nature, combining both passions and reason, provides a
remedy for this problem. In the first place, Hume denies that we lack
any real standard of right and wrong or good and evil. The relevant
standard depends on our sentiments of pleasure and uneasiness (T,
3.1.1.26 / 469). More specifically, our moral sentiments, understood
as calm forms of love and hate, enable us to draw the relevant
distinctions in this sphere. Hume also claims that in forming these
judgments we place ourselves in “a steady and general point of
view”, which prevents partiality and variation in our
circumstances from prejudicing or distorting our moral evaluations (T,
3.3.1.15–18 / 581–3).

It is evident that Hume aims to describe a standard of merit and
demerit that, although it depends on our given human nature, is in no
way arbitrary or without rational constraints. At the same time,
Hume’s account of justice and the artificial virtues does point
to the importance of human conventions, which create or invent the
institutions and practices associated with property and promising.
There are no obligations that we have in respect of these institutions
and practices that are prior to or independent of these conventions.
The general basis of our commitment to these conventions is that they
serve our individual and collective interest. Failing this, we would
have no relevant motive to obey these rules of justice. Clearly, then,
with respect to property, there are no natural rights or claims of
justice outside our created, conventional practices. It is in this
sense that Hume’s views on justice and the artificial virtues
follow the same general lines of thought already laid down by Hobbes
and his followers.

The details and specifics of Hume’s system of secular ethics are
not our particular concern in this context. What is our concern,
however, is to make clear that what Hume aims at, in both the
Treatise and the second Enquiry, is to defend the
“autonomy” of morality in relation to religion. On this
view of things, God and a future state are wholly unnecessary for
moral life and human society. The relevant foundation for moral life
and conduct rests with the key elements of human nature that we have
mentioned — pride, sympathy, moral sense, and conventions.
Moreover, the psychological mechanisms involved are strong and steady
enough in their influence to ensure that there exists a reliable
correlation between virtue and happiness and vice and misery. By these
means, we find that human beings are constituted in such a way that
they are capable of moral conduct and able to sustain social
cooperation and harmony. In so far as religion plays any role here,
Hume maintains, it is more likely to corrupt and disturb, than to
contribute, to morality or social stability.

Hume’s account of the autonomy of morals and its foundations in
human nature constitutes the constructive aspect of his views on the
religion/morality relationship. In developing this account, Hume draws
heavily from earlier work by other freethinking, irreligious, and
radical philosophers, such as Hobbes, Spinoza, Bayle, and (especially)
Shaftesbury. There is, however, a much more critical aspect to
Hume’s views on the religion/morality relationship. While it is
evident that Hume believes that religion is not necessary for
morality, he stops short of claiming that religion is always
destructive of morality — even though this is a view that would
be no more extreme than the contrary view frequently advanced by
religious apologists (i.e., that atheists are incapable of moral
conduct etc.). Nevertheless, in a variety of contexts, Hume does
maintain that religion — especially monotheism — has
pernicious and corrupting tendencies.

One of the most sustained discussions of this general theme is in
The Natural History of Religion, where Hume compares the
effects of polytheism and theism on their believers (Sects. IX-XIV).
In this context., Hume points out that while theism may avoid some of
the absurdities and barbarisms of polytheism, it is by no means free
of these problems. On the contrary, it is Hume’s view that
theism is prone to intolerance and persecution of its opponents; that
it encourages its followers to abase themselves and pursue useless
forms of self-denial; that it corrupts and perverts philosophy; that
although it is plagued with doubts, it presents a dogmatic attitude to
the world; and, finally, that it breeds serious moral vices, including
hypocrisy, fraud and cruelty. The tendencies of theism that most
concern Hume, however, are its intolerance and opposition to liberty,
its distorted moral standard, and its willingness to sanction the
“greatest crimes” in the name of piety and devotion (NHR,
14.7). Hume leaves his readers with the clear view that religion, far
from being a source of support for moral practice, is in fact a major
source of moral sickness in the world.

Hume returns to these same general themes in the closing passages of
the Dialogues. In this context Philo emphasizes the point
that the doctrine of a future state has little practical influence
over human conduct (D, 12.13–20/220–23).

This is well understood in the world; and none but fools ever repose
less trust in a man, because they hear, that from study and
philosophy, he has entertained some speculative doubts with regard to
theological subjects. And when we have to do with a man, who makes a
great profession of religion and devotion; has this any other effect
upon several, who pass for prudent, than to put them on their guard,
lest they be cheated and deceived by him? (D, 12.14/221)

Hume makes the further observation that even if religion does not put
itself “in direct opposition to morality”, it nevertheless
puts forward a “frivolous species of merit” that suggests
“a preposterous distribution” of praise and blame based
upon a perverted moral standard that is disconnected from any real
human needs and interests (D, 12.16/222; cp. EM, 3.38 199; 9.3/ 270;
9.15 / 279). Beyond all this, he also points out the particular
dangers to society of the clergy when they gain too much power and
influence (D, 12.21/223). This is a theme that Hume also touches on
throughout many of his other writings, including The Natural
History of Religion, several of his essays, and his History
of England. (See, e.g., NHR, 9.6; “Of National
Characters,” ESY, 199n3; and HE, III,135f.)

The relationship between religion and morality on Hume’s account
seems clear. At best, religion has little practical influence in
guiding or supporting moral conduct. The most effective and reliable
levers for this purpose rest with various elements of human nature
that operate independently from our religious beliefs (i.e., pride,
sympathy, moral sense etc.). At its worst, which is how we commonly
find it, religious principles and institutions disturb and pervert
that natural and reasonable moral standards that human nature has
provided us with.

One of the most hotly debated issues arising out of Hume’s
philosophy is whether or not he was an atheist. Two methodological and
historical caveats should be briefly noted before addressing this
question. First, as already noted, many of Hume’s own
contemporaries regarded him in these terms. Our own contemporaries
have tended to dismiss these claims as coming from religious bigots
who did not understand Hume’s philosophy. While there may be
some basis for these concerns, this is not true of all of Hume’s
early critics (e.g. Thomas Reid) and, even if it were, it would not
show that his critics were wrong about this matter. Second, and
related to the first point, Hume lived and wrote at a time of severe
religious persecution, by both the church and the state. Unorthodox
religious views, and more especially any form of open atheism, would
certainly provoke strong reactions from the authorities. Caution and
subterfuge in these circumstances was essential if difficulties of
these kinds were to be avoided. (For this reason it is especially
ironic to find religious apologists who confidently read Hume’s
professions of orthodoxy as entirely sincere but who never mention the
awkward conditions in which he had to express his views.) While
conditions of suppression do not themselves prove a writer or thinker
such as Hume had a concealed doctrine, this possibility should be
seriously and carefully considered.

The view that has, perhaps, been most dominant during the past century
has been that Hume was a skeptic and, as such, stands in a position
that endorses neither theism nor atheism. On this reading Hume’s
skeptical principles commit him to the view that human understanding
is weak and imperfect and, so considered, we should avoid all
dogmatism and also refrain from pursuing our investigations beyond the
narrow sphere of “common life”. More specifically, the
skeptic, it is argued, must resist the temptation to address questions
relating to the “two eternities”, as this concerns
“the origin of worlds, and the situation of nature, from, and to
eternity” (D, 1.10/134; EU, 12.25). Read this way, Hume is what
we may describe as a “soft skeptic” with respect to the
issue of theism. Throughout his writings, while he is certainly
concerned to discredit various (dogmatic) proofs for the existence of
God, he also avoids advancing or endorsing any (dogmatic) atheistic
arguments and their conclusions – preferring to suspend all
belief on such matters (NHR, 15.13; D, 1.3–11/131–36,
12.33–4/227–8).

Against this (soft) skeptical reading critics have argued both that it
exaggerates and that it underestimates Hume’s skeptical
commitments. One way of assessing Hume’s position on this issue
is to begin with Hume’s suggestion that “genuine
theism” involves the minimal claim that there exists some
(invisible) “supreme intelligence” that is the origin,
creator and governor of this world (NHR, 4.2). So described, genuine
theism involves what we may call a “thin” conception of
God. There is, on this account, no commitment to some further, more
specific, set of attributes. In contrast with thin theism,
“robust” theism presupposes a richer set of attributes,
such as infinity, omniscience, omnipotence, and moral perfection.
Whether one is judged an atheist or not may depend, not only on
whether the standard of theism is robust or thin, it may also depend
on what particular set of “thick” attributes are
considered essential for belief in God.

Clearly major religions like traditional Christianity require a robust
conception of God. With regard to robust theism, Hume is sharply
critical and goes well beyond the bounds of a more limited soft
skepticism. That is to say, Hume pursues what we may call the
hard skeptical aim of providing grounds for denying
the theist hypothesis in its various robust forms. For example, in a
number of passages of the Dialogues Hume suggests that the
abundant evidence of unnecessary evil provides us with compelling
grounds for denying that there exists an omnipotent, morally perfect
being who is the creator and governor of this world. In light of these
considerations, we may conclude that with respect to robust
theism Hume is a hard skeptic who defends a non-dogmatic form
of atheism.

While Hume may be a hard skeptic about robust theism, it does not
follow that he is either a hard or a soft skeptic about thin theism.
Against views of this kind, it has been argued by a number of scholars
that Hume is committed to some form of thin theism or
“attenuated deism”. (See, e.g., Gaskin 1988.) The key
passages that are generally relied on in support of this view are
found in the last section of the Dialogues (XII). It is in
this context that Philo is understood to “reverse” his
opposition to the design argument and concede to Cleanthes “that
the works of nature bear a great analogy” to human
productions and that a “purpose, intention, or design strikes
everywhere the most careless, the most stupid thinker” (D,
12.2/214, 12.6/216–7 – my emphasis; cp. NHR, Intro.1,
15.1). There are, however, several important points to note in
response to this aspect of Hume’s discussion.

First, Hume makes clear that this mode of (thin) theism leaves us
still in a state of “profound ignorance” and that it
provides us with “no inference that affects human life”
(D, 12.33/227; cp. EU, 11.23). Second, although Philo does make some
concessions to Cleanthes, he immediately goes on to perform a
“double reversal” – retracting his original
concessions and returning to his original claim that there is a
“vast” and “incomprehensible” difference that
must be supposed between the human and divine mind (D,
12.6–7/217–9). All of which terminates in the (vague)
conclusion “that the cause or causes of order in the universe
probably bear some remote analogy to human
intelligence” (D, 12.33/227 – my emphasis; see also EU,
11.27, where Hume observes that the analogy involved here may be
compared to that between “the sun and a waxen taper”
[candle]). To strengthen the skeptical side of these reflections Hume
has Philo point out that there are other analogies available to us
(e.g. the rotting of a turnip or the generation of an animal: D,
12.7/217–9) which may suggest very different inferences and
conclusions. Finally, to all this we may add that Hume’s theory
of belief, as presented in his earlier works, plainly implies that in
these circumstances there can be no belief in any such being.
More specifically, it is a feature of Hume’s analysis of the
mechanics of belief that when the analogy we are relying on is remote
and imperfect, and the ideas involved are obscure and vague, belief
will be weakened if not completely erased (see, e.g., T,
1.3.9.13–4; 1.3.13.25).

In light of these observations, we may conclude that it is highly
problematic to present Hume as any kind of theist, either
robust or thin. The question remains, however, whether his final
skeptical attitude to thin theism is better understood as hard or soft
in character? Hume’s concluding remarks in the
Dialogues may suggest that the soft reading – stopping
short of any (atheistic) denial – is his final view (D,
12.33/227–8). According to this interpretation, we should accept
our epistemological predicament and avoid any final judgment on such
matters.

The whole is a riddle, an enigma, an inexplicable mystery. Doubt,
uncertainty, suspense of judgment appear the only result of our most
accurate scrutiny, concerning this subject. (NHR, 15.13)

While it is tempting to leave this matter here, settling on the view
that Hume is a hard skeptic about robust theism and a soft
skeptic about thin theism, there are, nevertheless, grounds
for pushing the matter further for the case for Hume’s hard
skepticism regarding thin theism. That is to say, if we examine
Hume’s remarks more carefully, we will find some clear arguments
of a hard skeptical variety as they concern the thin theist
hypothesis.

There are two hard skeptical arguments concerning this hypothesis that
are especially important. The first is that Hume points out that our
experience suggests that mind is always accompanied by body (D,
5.11/68-, 6.6/171-2, 8.11/186-7). Any reasonable hypothesis,
therefore, should be consistent with this aspect of human experience.
Although our experience may be narrow and limited, given the nature of
the object of our investigations, it nevertheless provides some
(substantial) basis for rejecting or denying the hypothesis of theism,
including the thin version. Second, Hume also argues that there are
alternative hypotheses that are available to us that are more
plausible and consistent with human experience. In particular, we may
easily revise the old Epicurean hypothesis of eternal matter that
generates cycles of chaos and order (D, 6.12/174, 8.2/182). This is a
hypothesis that provides us with natural explanations for forms and
orders of life and existence in a manner that clearly anticipates
important features of Darwinian theory. Arguments of these kinds
suggest that, even with respect to the minimalism of thin theism, Hume
goes well beyond a soft skepticism that simply “suspends
belief” on these issues. His arguments are harder than this and
present grounds for denying theism, both robust and thin. On
this basis we may conclude that Hume’s skeptical commitments are
hard and not soft with respect to the theist hypothesis in all its
forms and, as such, constitute a non-dogmatic form of
atheism.

In the previous section it was suggested that Hume may be properly
described as a hard sceptic who is a non-dogmatic atheist. It remains
an open question, however, whether “atheism” is the most
suitable label for Hume’s general position on this subject
– apt as it may be. One important consideration here is that
Hume’s (apparent) concessions to theism in the last section of
the Dialogues are indicative of significant features of his
practical aims and objectives. More specifically, Hume’s final
position is not aggressively atheistic in any familiar sense,
not only because it is non-dogmatic, but also because his final
position is one that aims to reconcile a broad group of
views. According to Hume’s analysis, the practical
consequences of both soft and hard scepticism, as well as thin theism,
are all much the same. While the thin theist may want to emphasize the
(remote) basis for some inference to a being that resembles human
intelligence, they must nevertheless grant that we are left in a state
of “profound ignorance” with a (weak and vague) idea that
cannot serve to guide our lives in any way (D, 12.33/227). This
returns us to a point that Hume had made earlier in the
Dialogues; namely, that in both theoretical and practical
terms a mystical form of theism – lacking any significant
anthropomorphic features – is indistinguishable from a form of
scepticism, where all conjectures about the nature of God remain
entirely undecided, unknowable and irrelevant to human life (D,
6.1/158, 12.7/217). With this general point in mind, Hume is happy to
emphasize the “verbal” nature of the dispute among those
who may fall on the spectrum lying between thin theism and
non-dogmatic hard scepticism (D, 12.6-7/216-7). What really matters,
Hume suggests, is that the falsehoods, frauds, hypocrisies and
cruelties of religion in the various (robust) forms that it almost
always takes are firmly resisted and rejected. This is a point that
both hard and soft skeptics, as well those who embrace religion of a
genuinely “philosophical and rational kind” (D, 12.13/
220), can all accept.

Given the more open-ended and inclusive nature of Hume’s outlook
and aims, the label of “atheism” perhaps suggests a more
narrow and doctrinaire position than Hume is comfortable with or
concerned to champion. Granted that the label of “atheism”
is in these respects potentially misleading, and that
“scepticism” and “agnosticism” fail to
properly identify and highlight Hume’s wholly hostile and
critical attitude towards religious dogma and doctrine (in its
orthodox forms), what alternative label is available to us? The most
accurate and informative label for describing Hume’s views on
this subject is perhaps irreligion. This is a term that both
Hume’s contemporaries and our own would understand and can apply
to Hume’s arguments and outlook without any serious
misrepresentation. On one side, calling Hume’s views on this
subject irreligious avoids any connotations of a dogmatic or rigid
atheism, one that is unwilling to accommodate or make common cause
with soft scepticism (agnosticism) or thin theism. On the other side,
the label of irreligion also makes clear that Hume’s fundamental
attitude towards religion (qua various forms of robust theism) is one
of systematic hostility – that is, he believes we are
better off without religion and religious hypotheses and
speculations.

The term irreligion has several other specific advantages. This term
makes clear that it is not simply (robust) “theism” that
Hume aims to discredit and undermine but religion broadly conceived as
including related doctrines (miracles, a future state, etc.) and
institutions (church, clergy, etc.). The label of irreligion serves
effectively to identify these wider concerns and places appropriate
emphasis on Hume’s destructive intent to leave religious
doctrine without any solid philosophical grounds or significant
content – much less any practical value or influence. Related to
this point, by widening our scope of interest in religion, and
avoiding a narrow focus on arguments concerning the existence of God,
we are encouraged to consider works other than the Dialogues
when assessing the nature and character of Hume’s views on this
subject. It is, for example, especially important that proper weight
be given to Hume’s effort in the Treatise to discredit
the metaphysical and moral paraphernalia of traditional theistic
systems and to redirect our philosophical investigations to “the
study of man”, whereby we may develop a secular, scientific
account of the true foundations of moral and social life. Insofar as
we consider Hume’s views as advancing a “philosophy of
irreligion”, rather than simply atheism, we are more likely to
capture these more diverse, complex and subtle aspects of his thinking
on this subject. More importantly, when we consider Hume’s
thought from the point of view of the wider framework of irreligion,
and not just the question of the existence of God, we are better
placed to recognize that his critique of religion constitutes the
unifying motivation and central theme running throughout his entire
philosophy.

In the entry above, we Follow the convention given in the
Nortons’ Treatise and Beauchamp’s
Enquiries: we cite
Book . Part . Section . Paragraph;
followed by page references to the Selby-Bigge/Nidditch
editions. Thus T,1.2.3.4/ 34: will indicate Treatise Bk.1,
Pt.2, Sec.3, Para.4/ Selby-Bigge pg.34. References to the
Abstract [TA] are to the two editions of the
Treatise mentioned above (paragraph/page). In the case of the
Enquiries I cite Section and Paragraph; followed by
page reference to the Selby-Bigge edition. Thus EU, 12.1/ 149
refers to Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, Sect.12,
Para. 1 / Selby-Bigge pg. 149.

The Natural History of Religion (1757) in, A
Dissertation on the Passions, The Natural History of religion: A
Critical Edition, edited by T.L. Beauchamp, Oxford & New
York: Clarendon Press, 2007. Section and paragraph references are to
this edition.

The Natural History of Religion (1757) in:
Dialogues and Natural History of Religion, edited by J.A.C.
Gaskin, Oxford & New York: Oxford University Press, 1993.

The Natural History of Religion, edited with an
introduction by James Fieser, New York: Macmillan, 1992.

D

Dialogues concerning Natural Religion and Other
Writings (1779), edited by D. Coleman, Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2007. References are to the Part and paragraph
numbers as provided in this edition. Page references after the slash
are provided to:

David Hume Writings on Religion, edited and introduced
by A. Flew, La Salle, Ill.: Open Court, 1992. [This collection
contains the complete Dialogues along with a number of other
works by Hume concerned with religion.]

Mackie, J.L., 1982, The Miracle of Theism: Arguments for and
against the Existence of God, Oxford: Clarendon Press. [This book
is not directly on Hume’s philosophy of religion but discusses
his views on various relevant topics at some length in several
chapters.]

A helpful bibliography of readings relating to Hume’s views
on religion, including many important articles on this topic, may be
found in Bailey & O’Brien (eds.), The Continuum
Companion to Hume, as cited above.